Kidnappers, Beware!
by Victim No. 5173
Summary: Just because someone sees you doing something illegal doesn't mean you should kidnap them. Especially when that someone happens to be the Head Psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing he became aware of was the sensation of movement. The second was the fact that it was not his body that was moving, but rather whatever his body was in. He suspected a vehicle. Most likely a large pickup truck with an attached camper shell, judging by the vibrations, sounds, and his immediate surroundings. The third thing he realized, after trying unsuccessfully to sit up (he totally blamed his failure on the fact that his hands were cuffed behind him and he was held down by safety straps-the irony of which was not lost on him at all- instead of the fact that the pain caused by his attempts at movement made him want to cry like a little girl), was that he really did _not_ want to be…wherever he currently was.

* * *

There is something to be said about a man who is relieved when he hasn't heard from his best friend in over thirty-six hours, but, considering who his best friend was, those things should not be said about Burton Guster. Although, considering that the last time he had gotten blessed silence from Shawn the man had been leaving for God-knows-where (Gus thought it might have been Argentina, but it could have just as easily been L.A.) on a quest to find his "calling" (and wasn't that just hilarious since he was pretending to be a psychic?), Gus might not have been as relieved as he told himself he was.  
Then again, Shawn was probably currently lazing about at his new girlfriend's house.  
That was it. No reason to be worried. He'd give it another few hours before he called his (only) friend. Gus smiled and went back to destroying alien spacecraft while keeping an eye out for his boss.

* * *

There is slightly less to be said about a man who thinks absolutely nothing of it when he has neither seen nor heard from his only son in over a week, despite the fact that said child lives and works less than five miles from said father. In Henry Spencer's case, considering who his son was, those things are not even thought. It didn't matter that Shawn had been over nearly once a week (since he'd learned his father had returned from Miami, anyway) to ask for his help on cases and that he had even been coming by for heretofore unheard of social visits (which had, apart from being exceedingly awkward, been surprisingly pleasant).  
It also didn't matter that he had been receiving semi-regular phone calls from his son, all of which came at or around three in the morning, all of which could really have waited until midday (or never- because he was completely unmoved when Shawn informed him that the shop down the road from the Psych office had run out of pineapples or that the cute barista from the Starbucks by the station had been fired for some undisclosed offense).  
Shawn had probably just done something incredibly stupid, selfish, dangerous, or disappointing (_again_) and was avoiding his father in the hope of sparing himself a lecture.  
That was it. No reason to feel put out. He'd wait another few days before tracking down his wayward son to lecture him about…whatever it was that he'd done.

* * *

Carlton Lassiter felt like dancing, but he wouldn't. Not in public, anyway. Maybe when he got home…no. No dancing. None whatsoever.  
He could not, however, help the smile that he'd been wearing all morning. Nobody questioned it; a happy Head Detective (and even in his head he gave the title the capital letters it deserved) was a rarity these days. Ever since a certain phony psychic detective (and even with all the evidence pointing to Spencer not being a fraud, he still refused to believe it) had begun consulting for their department. Over a year, now.  
Juliet O'Hara just wished that her partner's obvious joy was not the direct result of her favorite psychic's absence.  
Sure, they were perfectly capable of solving crime on their own (and they had actually been on a winning streak for the past few days, enough so that they hadn't needed Shawn), but the psychic's antics certainly made things more interesting. Still, no reason for Shawn to be hanging around, and if that made her permanently grouchy partner and her perpetually stressed Chief happy (for different reasons, but happy nonetheless), she sure as hell wasn't going to complain.

* * *

Gwen was going to complain, though- loudly and publicly. As soon as Shawn called her like he'd promised to.

* * *

To be fair, he had only technically been the victim of a kidnapping for twenty-four hours. In the day that had gone by with nobody questioning his absence, Shawn had come to several realizations:  
- no matter what the commercials claimed, pickup trucks should never, _ever_ be used for off-roading,  
- he was not particularly fond of women who came fully equipped with sadistic accomplices and crowbars,  
- he should really pay more attention when Chief Vick, Lassie, and Jules all tell him not to investigate things on his own (or at least not without backup or some way of calling for it),  
- criminals could sometimes have great ideas (like going in circular and out-of-the-way routes to their destination to throw off his sense of location) and then find some incredible way to screw it up (like not blindfolding him- though even that probably wouldn't have stopped him from knowing exactly where he was being taken), and  
- because he knew exactly where he was, he knew that nobody was going to find him anytime soon (hell, the police didn't even know about the connection to this place yet), unless they were psychic (and wasn't that just a kick in the head?).  
Oh, and he really, really, _really_ did _not_ want to be here.


	2. What Happened Before the Beginning

This is the second chapter (obviously...)! Nothing belongs to me. Not even the _plot_ (because, come on- how original is a Shawn-gets-kidnapped story, anyway?) belongs to me. I don't own Toyota, Ford, Dodge, or Pizza Hut. Although, it would be pretty cool to own Pizza Hut; I'll have to work on that...  
The Middle of Nowhere, Santa Barbara is not a real place. And on the off chance that it _is_, I don't own that, either.

I got surprisingly good feedback, so I just wanted to thank everyone.

* * *

The second to last conversation that Gus had with Shawn went something like this:

"Come on, Gus; it'll be fun!"

"No. I have work to do."

"But-"

"No. Absolutely not. It's not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because I have work to do, Shawn. I have meetings with two prospective clients today and I am _not_ going to miss out on them."

"Can't we just run in for a few minutes?"

"No. Besides, they'll just turn us away. You know that."

"They won't after I have a miraculous vision of it totally _not_ being the neighborhood watch guy."

"Yes they will. They haven't called us in for a few days, which means they've probably been on a roll and they'll have this wrapped up in no time."

"But did you miss the part where its _not_ the neighborhood watch guy?"

"They probably already figured it out! Now get out of my office; I have work to do."

"But Gus-…Hello? Gwen, hi!…That sounds great…Nope, nothing; I knew you'd call today…Sure, I'll see you then…Okay, bye."

"Was that the-"

"Neighborhood watch guy's daughter? Yes, yes it was. Nice talkin' to ya, buddy, but I gotta go."

"Shawn, wait! You can't-"

"Bye, Gus!"

×Ø

The last conversation that they had is of no importance and included, among many an inane topic, pineapples and the many tasty uses thereof, Gus's blue Toyota (which Shawn had lovingly dubbed the "Psychmobile" despite that it really belonged to a pharmaceuticals company that he couldn't really be bothered to acknowledge even existed- except to make jokes about Gus being a drug dealer), the best way to fake a psychic vision (i.e., the way that would annoy a certain detective most; this part of the conversation involved several vehement protests from Gus) that would get them assigned to an as-of-yet unspecified super cool investigation and thereby pull Gus away from his _real_ job, and how to avoid mowing the lawn for Henry.

Several days later, this conversation would be the one that stood out foremost in Gus's mind.

×Ø

Gwen had been right; sex with Shawn Spencer really _was_ worth tolerating his ridiculous antics. It was like he knew what she wanted without her even having to give hints or outright suggestions. When she asked him about that, afterwards, he simply pointed to his temple with an almost-maniacal grin.

"I'm psychic, silly."

She made him promise to call her the next day, and, when questioned, told him, with a little smirk, that he should already know.

He did.

×Ø

While Gus was off finishing his route, Shawn had been approached at his office by Brian Greyson. Brian was a smart (but not brilliant) seventeen year-old kid with poor, working class parents who loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Brian did his best to save money for at least a community college education. He had a steady job, he didn't have much of a social life, he didn't have any hobbies, and he kept a close eye on his bank account; which was why he suspected that his parents were doing something illegal and/or immoral. His savings had been increasing rapidly over the last week or two, and he (as far as he knew) had not gotten a raise or bonus from his boss, nor had his parents made any career changes. He didn't want to go to the police, just in case is _was_ something illegal.

So he hired Shawn to at least find out what exactly his parents were up to, and, if it turned out to be something illegal and/or immoral (like, for instance, selling their nonessential organs on the black market), to stop them if he could.

Shawn agreed, mainly because he was bored (they hadn't had a walk-in client in over a week and Lassie and Jules had just solved their most recent case- _without_ his help), but also because he had decided that he _liked_ this kid.

×Ø

Six o'clock that evening found Shawn riding his motorcycle a lane to the right and three cars back from a blue Ford Taurus owned by Thomas and Ashley Greyson (technically, it was just Tom's name on the title, but Shawn decided that it belonged to both of them because they both used it). Really, his Norton wasn't ideal for this sort of thing (that is, covert operations), but he didn't really have a choice unless he wanted to have a cabbie or (spirits forbid) his _father _drive him around. He had enough (too much) confidence in himself to pull this off.

Thomas and Ashley didn't notice him; they were too focused on following the black Dodge Ram (model 2004, good condition with just a small dent near the back bumper and one tire that didn't quite match the others, sticker in the camper shell window that said something rather nasty about George Bush's mother, license plate KFE 167, filth on the tires that suggested recent and frequent trips through mud and/or dirt, a busted left tail light, and cab windows tinted slightly darker than state law allowed- which stopped Shawn from getting a good view of the interior; all he could discern was that there were two occupants, and that one of them- the passenger- was female).

In the back of his mind, he suddenly had a craving for some cold pizza.

×Ø

How the hell did he get _pizza_, of all things, in his fridge? For that matter, when was the last time that he _hadn't_ cooked his own food? (A month and thirteen days, now that he thought about it- he and Shawn had gone out to Mario's for dinner. _Together. Shawn_ had even paid.)

Mario's didn't have pizza. And if they did, they certainly didn't have it in boxes labeled 'Pizza Hut.'

Henry's eyes narrowed in thought. Thought, and maybe a little irritation.

×Ø

Lassiter and O'Hara were congratulating themselves on having solved, single-handedly (although there was some debate over if it should really be called that, what with there being the two of them), their eighth case in a row. No help from the Chief or other officers (excepting the necessary evil of forensics people and lab techs), and no help from outside consultants (that is, no Shawn Spencer to bounce around and solve the case faster than they ever could have on their own).

Lassiter had been right about it being the neighbor (albeit this was after being wrong about it being the neighborhood watch guy, but that was a first guess. Everybody knows that first guesses don't count). The man had cracked under the pressure of the Head Detective's awesome interrogation powers (the nearly permanent death-glare was a big plus in situations like these) within five minutes.

O'Hara had hit the nail on the head with her theory on his motive (jealousy, of course- wasn't it always in cases like these?), and Lassiter had even praised her for it.

This man wouldn't be stealing anyone else's lawn mower again for a _very_ long time.

They were confident that their next case (a double homicide near an old textile factory out in The Middle of Nowhere, Santa Barbara) would be handled just as easily.


	3. And Then

I now present to you the third installment! Awesomely enough, no death threats were required to get me to finish this chapter.

In addition, I do not own Maxim, Kimber Carry Pistols, or the DMV.

I'm not even sure if silencers can be attached to the Ultra Raptor II, but this is fiction, and if I want the Raptor to be quiet, it damn well will be!

Thanks for all the positive feedback! You guys are super cool.

* * *

Ashley hadn't taken three steps from the car door before she was dead.

There was no slow-motion descent to the ground, no last, lingering look at her shocked and outraged husband, no defiant eye-contact with her killer. Just one step, then a second, then a small sound something like a cough, and then nothing. She hadn't even seen it coming.

×Ø

Thomas saw, as he exited the car, what seemed like an explosion of red mist around his wife's head just before her body slumped to the dirt. For a second he was frozen in place, uncomprehending. Then he was turning, intent on running (and leaving his dead wife's body behind, but who could really blame him?).

The first bullet caught him in the left shoulder and sent him careening head-first into the back door of the car. The knock to the face did not render him unconscious, only unfocused. He slid to the ground slowly (as slowly as one can when not in control of their own motor functions, at least) in a tangled heap, trying unsuccessfully to cradle his aching head in his hands. He closed his eyes as he heard approaching footsteps; he didn't see the woman lower the gun to his head, but he felt it, digging ever-so-slightly into his temple.

The sound of the second bullet (third really, if you counted the one that had killed his wife- and wasn't that just the stupidest thing to argue with yourself over right before you're about to-).

And then he was dead.

×Ø

Oh, this was _so_ not good.

×Ø

The woman could have been a cover girl for Maxim, if you took away fifteen years, the nasty (yet creepily happy) expression, and the gun held comfortably in her hand (her _left_ hand, and was that seriously _bright purple_ nail polish?). She was (approximately, judging by the average height of a Ford Taurus and her elevation relative to it) 5'7", probably around 125 lbs. Her hair was layered to her shoulders, black and shiny (maybe gloss, maybe grease, maybe too much sunlight- his money was on too much grease because, _hello_, murderer!), and her eyes were of indeterminable color; although she did have thin, wire-frame glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose.

She wore a conservative (-ish, because you could totally tell she was a _woman_) black pant suit with a lavender blouse to cover a skinny, delicate-looking build. The look was completed by a pair of low-heeled sensible shoes, black (and if that didn't confirm every bad-guy/girl/person stereotype, then he would go an entire _day_ without pineapple).

The gun was a Kimber Ultra Raptor II .45 ACP equipped with night sights (because, sure, it was bright now, but as a rule most murders should be carried out at night- maybe she'd missed that memo), a flat top slide with special serrations (for easier maneuverability), and (obviously) a silencer (probably custom-made, considering the type of gun). American-made, with an ambidextrous grip (great for the left-handed murderer who still yearns for the accuracy exhibited by those snobbish _right-handed_ bastards).

×Ø

The man with her was clearly not someone to be messed with (well, neither was the woman, but that was because of the gun- this guy's aura just screamed 'Screw with me and I'll mess you up but good'), apparent lowly minion or not.

He was maybe six inches taller than the woman, with a haircut that suggested current or recent military service (or just bad fashion sense- a danger in and of itself) and eyes slightly sunken into a weather-worn face.

He wore black boots (probably steel-toe, they _always_ wore steel-toe) and black jeans with a dark blue (so, only mostly evil, then- wasn't that good to know?) t-shirt. His arms were muscled but not overly so; enough to tell you that a punch would leave you alive but would probably _really_ hurt.

His expression was…amused, with just a touch of apathy.

×Ø

Two bodies on the ground around them, and no sign of wanting to hurry; they were too far away from _anywhere_ for anyone to have seen what was happening, and no one could have heard the shots. No reason to worry.

The woman stood back and looked around while her lackey, for want of a better term (although 'lackey' was, in it's own right, a lot of fun to say), opened the trunk of the (now completely free of ownership) car and grabbed what was in it (two bags full of something- probably not cash; the couple couldn't even afford to send their kid to a community college, so it had to be something else. Plus, the weight distribution was all wrong). He then tossed whatever it was into the back seat of his (at least, he assumed it belonged to the man- if the woman was as in charge as she seemed she probably wouldn't have been stupid enough to drive her _own_ vehicle to where she was about to commit murder) truck.

He climbed into the driver's seat, she in the passenger's, and they sped off.

Shawn was too busy wondering what the hell he had stumbled into (and maybe being at least a little bit afraid, not that he would ever admit it) to follow them.

And just what the _hell_ was he supposed to tell Brian?

×Ø

As head detective (and he totally would _not_ give that title capital letters when thinking in the privacy of his own head, no matter how awesomely _cool_ the man could sometimes be), it stood to reason that Lassie would have access to the DMV database.

And if he didn't, he could always ask Gwen. She worked there, after all. Perhaps he could bribe her…

No. _So_ not the time for that.

Sneaking into the police station was almost always depressingly easy; everyone was doing their own thing (paperwork, escorting suspects to the holding cells or interrogation rooms, documenting complaints, fielding phone calls, _paperwork_, getting ready to go home, dancing in front of the copy machine, drinking bad coffee) and had no time to notice the stealthy and very ninja-like Head Psychic (unless he wanted to be noticed, of course- then he was nearly impossible to ignore) sneaking past Chief Vick's office and into Detective Lassiter's…_office_.

Password protection is a joke when messing with a psychic of his incredible awesomeness. Maybe he should leave a post-it for Lassie about his transparency…

And, voila! Lassie _did_ have access! Now all he had to do was wait for a match on the truck, and he'd have an address.

Perhaps Buzz had left a pineapple in the break room for him.

×Ø

It was really, _really_ bright out here, and windy, and hot, but that was California for you. The majority of the people gathered in this particular area (say, all but two of those present) were at least a little bit uncomfortable.

The dead woman looked uncannily similar to Victoria. This fact caused Carlton to narrow his eyes in a flash of irrational anger, which he then proceeded to squelch briskly.

Juliet was searching for a signal on her phone (and who thought it would have been possible to find a dead zone in _California_?) so she could call the Chief.

The forensics people were carefully examining the car, having already painstakingly photographed the bodies from every imaginable angle. They were noticeably more irritable than the two detectives, as they did not have the option of wearing sunglasses (for fear of missing some crucial yet tiny piece of evidence). And they had to wear _gloves_. Damn protocol.

Thomas and Ashley Greyson were a little preoccupied with being dead to notice all of the activity.

×Ø

No delicious fruit, but there was some leftover chicken and a microwave. Close enough. He finished it and snuck back over to Lassie's desk, and found his next destination.

The door to the Chief's office opened, then, prompting him to make a hasty exit.


	4. In Which More Crime is Committed

I know, I know: Its been for fucking ever since the last time I updated. What can I say, except that I've been busy? Re-watching Psych, catching up on season four of Supernatural, working, reading (a whole damn _lot_ of reading), sleeping, etc.

But aside from my inexcusable excuses, I am back to present to you the fourth installment in my (semi) anxiously (and ridiculously long) awaited Psych fanfic!

Enjoy, and please forgive me!

As usual (depressingly enough), I own nothing except the computer that I'm typing this on (which I didn't even pay for- 'twas a gift). Suing me will get you nowhere!



He saw the truck again before he reached Bad Fashion Guy's (also known as Elliot Mercer, according to the DMV database- Shawn liked to think that he'd been made fun of and called 'Ellie' all throughout school, the jerk) address, heading in the opposite (-ish; it was more like a 162 degree angle) direction. Sitting in the passenger seat, once again, was Lefty Psycho Chick. Neither of them appeared to have changed their clothes (and he wasn't exactly sure whether or not that was even important, but his brain registered and stored it anyway).

The DMV database had listed Elliot's address; a townhouse about eleven or so blocks away from the police station itself (and he had to ask himself why a criminal would want to live in a _townhouse- _they really didn't afford one much privacy when going about illegal activities.) Now, however, he faced a dilemma- follow Elliot and Lefty to their current destination (and for all he knew they could be going out to lunch or on a date), or continue on his current path to see what insight the man's residence offered.

He decided that Elliot's home could wait (and it _could_- after all, where was it going to go?) and made a slightly less than 180 degree turn to follow the Ram.

One of his more dangerous choices, as it turned out.



The forensics guys had finally finished photographing the bodies and processing the car, and so the detectives were given dominion over the scene as the coroner had Thomas and Ashley placed in body bags and loaded into the back of the state-owned refrigerated van (where they would undoubtedly be more comfortable than everyone else, as it was still way too damn _hot_).

O'Hara had found a cell signal about thirty-three feet from the Taurus and was reporting to Chief Vick that the tip about a double homicide had been confirmed.

"Do we know yet who called it in?"

_"He called from a payphone. He sounded young, and the dispatcher said the voice was familiar but couldn't place where she'd heard it before,"_ The connection was almost nonexistent, and Juliet had to strain her ears to make out what was being said.

"What about a location on the phone that was used? Was there any other information?"

_"We know what payphone he called from, but that's it- there aren't any cameras with a view of it. I'm sending McNab to see if anybody saw. Also, the caller said the suspects were driving a black pick-up truck, and gave us a partial plate number. We're running it through the DMV database right now, but it could be awhile. He didn't give descriptions, just that it was a man and a woman and that she was the one who pulled the trigger."_

"Really? Wow. Alright, thanks, Chief."

_"Just wrap it up out there and I'll push the tech guys to ID our caller,"_ She hung up without further discussion.

Juliet sighed and paced back to where Lassiter was currently scrutinizing the interior of the victims' car.



They'd gone to lunch. At Red Robin.

Shawn figured they'd be occupied for at _least_ twenty to thirty minutes, and so decided to rummage through the truck. They'd locked the doors but left the windows down, presumably to avoid turning the cab into an oven while they ate delicious cheeseburgers.

He found nothing of interest out in the open (a very good practice for criminals to have, he thought) and so very quickly moved on to better hiding places.

In the glove box there were pictures of a cabin that was near where he and his father set up camp whenever they went hiking on weekends (in fact, looking very closely, he could just make out the pineapple he had carved on a tree as a way to relieve his boredom while simultaneously ignoring one of Henry's lectures about seventeen years ago; he made it a point to go over it every couple of months- whenever he was in Santa Barbara, anyway- so that it would always be visible). Also in the compartment were the registration for the truck (which he disregarded, having already seen a copy, courtesy of the DMV) the gun used to kill Thomas and Ashley Greyson (which he studiously avoided touching), a receipt for an oil change paid for by an Elizabeth Harrell (who he assumed to be Lefty Psycho Chick), an unopened pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum, and three unused condoms (which caused Shawn to cast a suspicious eye at the seat upon which he was perched).

He replaced his findings, backed out of the cab, heard the footsteps behind him, saw Elliot out of the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to block the crowbar aimed for his head with his left forearm, and the shattering of his bones elicited a decidedly _un_manly squeak. To his credit, Shawn made a valiant effort to escape (and if they had seen him going through their stuff, why the hell couldn't any of the other patrons see _them_ beating the shit out of him?), lunging to the left and sinking his right elbow into Lefty's (Elizabeth's?) solar plexus (because, seriously, all that crap about not hitting women goes right out the window when survival instincts take over). She fell, gasping desperately for breath, and he sidestepped to go around her. Elliot let him get six steps before catching up; this time he swung for the leg, striking behind the right knee.

Shawn's leg crumpled beneath him, and his scream was cut off when Elliot smashed his head into the side of the truck. The last thing he saw was the formation of a new dent above the rear tire well, and he had just enough time to wonder if the broken taillight had come about in a similar fashion.



"Where the hell is Shawn?"

Gus nearly fell out of his chair. He hadn't even heard anyone come in (granted, he was rather preoccupied with his dinner- Chinese- and the television- the History channel), and he certainly hadn't sensed anyone behind him. Really, the stealth with which either of them could sneak up on people was astounding. He took a moment to slow his heartbeat before replying.

"I don't really know. He's probably out with Gwen, though."

Henry folded his arms across his chest, scowl firmly in place, "Gwen?"

"His new girlfriend. Two dates now, if that's where he is."

"He isn't answering his phone. He was supposed to mow my lawn today, since I helped him out with the dinosaur thing."

Gus grimaced, remembering their earlier conversation and the many plans Shawn had outlined to avoid just this sort of thing.

"Why wouldn't he answer his phone? I used my neighbor's cell so he wouldn't know it was me calling."

The grimace morphed into a grin- he had absolutely no trouble believing that. None at all. Back to the inquiry at hand, though, "Maybe they went back to her place…"

Henry's eyes narrowed momentarily in confusion, and then opened wide in understanding, and maybe a little discomfort. He cleared his throat, "Right, well, let him know to get his ass over to my place when you see him."

And with that he turned and hurried out of the Psych office. He really had no desire to know _anything_ about his son's sex life.



The partial plate had turned up 3,614 hits in the California DMV database. Black pick-up trucks matching the partial numbered 982 in the state, 16 of which were registered to drivers residing in Santa Barbara. From there they disregarded five (the mayor, two elderly men living in retirement homes, a middle-aged woman who was currently in a coma after totaling said truck, and a twenty-something crackhead who was up in County awaiting trial), leaving them with ten names. Three hours later McNab had run down all but four of those names:

-Amanda Neilson was in Los Angeles recovering from cosmetic surgery.

-Jesse Goldsmith had had his truck impounded after thirty-seven unpaid parking tickets.

-Kristina Jones had flown to New York for an internship on Wall Street, her truck sitting in the long term parking lot at the airport.

-Nicholas Devlin was dead, all his possessions tied up in a bitter court battle between his wife and his mother.

-Hannah Richers and Ryan Greene had both been at work at the time of the murders, confirmed by their bosses and several coworkers.

The last four names (Christian Forbes, Elliot Mercer, Joshua Weston, and Sarah Beckett) had not answered Buzz's persistent phone calls, and so he and Officer Allen had divided up the remaining names and set out to track them down.



There was no confusion when he woke up; no moment of looking around and wondering what he had been doing before falling asleep (or, in his case, being knocked unconscious). Any panic he might have felt was tightly reined in and controlled, just in case Elliot and Lefty happened to be hanging around.

Shawn figured (hoped) he hadn't been out for more than a few hours (anything more and he would most likely be suffering brain damage, and his brain didn't _feel_ scrambled- no more so than usual, anyway). He was no longer in the Red Robin parking lot (which really didn't surprise him at all), but neither was he at the cabin from the pictures ( he knew what those woods sounded like as well as he knew a lot of things). He was…in a closet.

More accurately, he was lying awkwardly on his right side (_not_ pleasant, considering his right leg seemed to be one throbbing mass of pain from the thigh down) on the floor of a _tiny_ closet with his hands cuffed behind him (and he _really_ didn't want to know where the cuffs came from, as he was fairly-to-pretty-damn sure that neither of his captors was a cop). The carpet was cheap and scratchy, most likely a blue-gray color (working off what little light came through the crack under the door), and not very comfortable.

Judging by the sounds filtering through the door and surrounding walls, he was being held in the hallway closet of Elliot's townhouse (and wasn't that just the stupidest place to bring someone you'd kidnapped?), and both Elliot and Lefty were home. Even more fantastic, it seemed that they already knew who he was and were just trying to decide what to do with him.

"Maybe we can use him, Lizzie." Ah, so Lefty really _was_ named Elizabeth Harrell…but Lizzie? Really?

"How would that be at all beneficial?" And Lizzie's voice was surprisingly sexy, what with her being a psycho killer and all.

"He's _psychic_! He can tell us what the police know and what they're doing!"

"He's a _police_ psychic, which means they're going to spend a great deal of energy looking into his disappearance. Do you think the extra heat is worth what little he might be able to tell us?"

The next bit of their argument was drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears as a sudden wave of nausea hit. He rolled to the side, just in case he felt the need to vomit, and realized that that really wasn't a good idea. The movement pulled on his left arm, the cuffs digging into the broken ulna (which really fuckin' _hurt_). The nausea won, but he wasn't conscious long enough to worry about it. Elliot could clean it up, for all he cared.


	5. The Spirits Say You're in Trouble

Yes, yes, I know; it's been forever. But what can I say, other than life happens?

But here it is nonetheless, chapter five!

As usual, I own nothing. Not Psych, not 82% Hawaiian pineapples, not USA Network. Nothing!

* * *

The Sun had gone down thirty minutes ago and Shawn had yet to show up at the Psych office, so Gus assumed that his best friend had, in fact, gone home with Gwen. That made two dates, now; one more and it would be a new record.

More likely than not, he would be receiving a phone call from aforementioned potential record-breaker, probably around three in the morning, undoubtedly to provide him with more details than he _really_ needed. Or wanted. Best to get as much sleep as he could manage beforehand.

When Gus was halfway home, the office phone began to ring. It stopped after twenty-three seconds. No message was left.

Shawn's cell phone, forgotten and left in a desk drawer, started vibrating, loud in the now-silent office, just as Gus was opening the door to his apartment.



5,675 feet away from his ringing cell phone, Shawn was once again regaining consciousness.



After listening to the recording for the third time, Karen was convinced (mostly- 99.6% sure) that it was Shawn Spencer's voice (after all, she'd had plenty of experience listening to him go on…and on).

No answer at his office. She didn't bother leaving a message.

But, really, it didn't completely make sense. He must have witnessed (not _seen_- she knew better than that) the shooting. Why call dispatch? Why not Lassiter or O'Hara or even herself? He knew all of their home and cell numbers, even though none of them- except maybe O'Hara- had told him.

No answer on his home phone, either.

And why didn't he provide more information? If he _had_ been there (and that was really the only explanation that made sense), he would've definitely caught much more than what he had told the officer (she knew this from prior experience, as well). So why hold back? Did he want them to figure it out on their own? Make Lassiter think he and his partner had solved it without Shawn's help?

"Spencer, my office, noon tomorrow." Short and to the point.

And just what the _hell_ had he been doing out there in the middle of nowhere, anyway?

No answer on his cell. She left the exact same message on his voicemail.

He was probably out complicating somebody else's life (and this turned out to be all too true, just not in any way she might have imagined).



Someone had cleaned up the vomit from his stomach's earlier rebellion, and now it smelled like mothballs (definitely not the greatest thing; he could already feel the nausea rising again).

Somehow, even with all of his amazing and super awesome skills, Shawn couldn't get out of the cuffs (through his attempts, he discovered that moving his left arm even slightly was a very, very bad idea and that being handcuffed as he was for an extended period of time was absolute hell on one's shoulders).

He could still hear one of them moving around the house (Lizzie, unless Elliot was a whole lot lighter than he looked), and so decided that keeping quiet was probably the best course of action (not the simplest task for him under normal circumstances, but necessary and therefore easily possible here in this closet). He ended up almost completely on his stomach, thinking furiously.

His wrist was definitely broken (he'd heard the bone _snap_, and it wasn't nearly as cool as when it happened on television), and his shoulders were throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He most likely had a mild concussion (he couldn't be entirely certain- nobody had thought to provide him with a way to check his own pupils, the inconsiderate jerks). On the bright side, nothing in his leg felt broken or sprained, although he was sure that a spectacular bruise had already formed and that walking (standing, even) would be extremely painful. All in all, very uncool but survivable, assuming he got some sort of medical attention before too long (and there was absolutely no point in thinking about what might happen if he _didn't_). The most concerning issue was his wrist, and really, if it came to it, he would risk the pain of getting his arms in front of him so that he could set the bone himself (even though he _so_ did _not_ want to go there; he was content to wait awhile before considering it further).

Seeing as how he wasn't dead yet, Shawn assumed (hoped- _desperately_ hoped) that they had decided not to kill him. While this was wonderful news (speculation), there was still the fact that he was handcuffed. And in pain. And in a _closet_.



Gus didn't start worrying until almost noon the next day.

He'd woken at three fifteen in the morning (without having set an alarm) to the sound of the phone ringing. Or, what he _thought_ was his phone. His apartment was silent. Surely, Shawn would have called by now.

No messages on either his home phone or his cell.

He shrugged off the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Maybe Shawn had been tired (and if he'd gone to sleep without calling him, he'd likely be asleep until at _least_ ten). And as much as Gus hated to think about Shawn having sex (he _knew_ for a fact that it happened, and on a fairly regular basis), a lot of sex was bound to tire anyone out, including his overly hyperactive best friend.

By six thirty he had convinced himself that Shawn would be strolling into his office around eleven to drag him out on some crazy errand or other. He showered, dressed, and went to work, deciding to stop in at the Psych office on the way, if only to make sure that Shawn hadn't crashed on their new couch.



Shawn had fallen back asleep around two in the morning (not that he would know it) after cataloguing his various hurts, and had awoken around eight to discover that both Elliot and Elizabeth had left (that or they weren't moving around the place at all, as he didn't hear anything), and so concluded that now would be the time to take action.

Something really needed to be done about his wrist. Not looking forward to that part at _all_ but knowing that it couldn't wait any longer, Shawn took a deep breath and moved.

As his kidnappers weren't present to smack him around for making noise, he didn't bother to hold in the scream. Maybe he'd get lucky and a neighbor would hear, but he wasn't counting on it (because while this _was_ a townhouse, it was in a rather upscale neighborhood, which indicated _careers_, which indicated going to work early in the morning).

Now just to get his feet through the loop that his arms made, and his hands would be in front of him. Another deep breath, some desperate maneuvering, a miserable grunt, and his back was leaning heavily against the closet door, his hands limp on his left thigh, right leg stretched out before him awkwardly. His knee ached fiercely, dwarfed only by the fire radiating from his left wrist, which was terribly swollen (his brain hysterically supplied that it appeared to be about 77% larger than the right and that the bone had already begun knitting itself back together). Not good.

Now for the hard part.

Quickly, before he had any more time to think about it (and consequently talk himself out of it, no matter how necessary), he grabbed his left wrist as best he could while still handcuffed and _pulled_.

Breaking it had hurt like a bitch; re-breaking it was worse. And again before he could think too much, he pushed, much more careful this time (wouldn't do to overshoot; the bone needed to be correctly aligned). It took nearly a full minute for his arched spine to let him relax, and another two to come back to his senses (not quite unconscious, but definitely close). His breathing harsh, he settled more firmly against door, listening intently.

If anyone _was_ within a ninety-three foot radius, the cops would most likely be there within half an hour.



Shawn hadn't crashed in the Psych office.

It was just after eleven, and Gus was on a lunch break (he'd eaten first-jerk chicken- because he had his priorities straight), and he had half an hour to kill (and between checking the place for Shawn and beating his high score for Tetris, his best friend had won out, but just barely- Shawn would understand).

But he wasn't there, apparently hadn't been since Gus had left last night; the door was still locked, there were no more paper basketballs in the waste basket, all of Gus' desk drawers and file stacks were still neat and organized, and there was still a whole pineapple on top of the fridge.

Grumbling about worrisome best friends and missed Tetris opportunities, Gus was halfway out the door when he heard it. He _knew_ that sound, had heard it enough times over the years to recognize it; a phone vibrating against a metal surface. He moved further into the office and waited.

Not the lockers. More towards the window. The drawers to Shawn's desk were made of metal.

Shawn's phone was in the top drawer of his desk, nestled between a box of cupcake mix and a personalized snow globe (with a picture of Gus, standing next to a mannequin dressed exactly like him). It stopped vibrating but the screen was lit up, showing seventeen missed calls. Shawn must have left it here sometime yesterday.

Picking up the phone led to the discovery of eleven voicemail messages in addition to the missed calls, the first of which was from Henry:

"_Why promise to do something if you know you aren't gonna do it? And don't ignore me!"_

The second and third were also from Henry, and contained much the same message. The fourth was from Gwen, demanding that Shawn call her like he promised to. The fifth was from Tina at the shop down the road, saying that they had gotten a new shipment of 82% Hawaiian pineapples in two days ago, and that yes, she would love to share one with him. The sixth was from Henry. The seventh was from Henry on his neighbor's cell. The eighth was from Gwen. The ninth was from an unlisted number, and was only two seconds long, consisting of the click that indicated the person hanging up. The tenth was from Chief Vick:

"_Spencer, my office, noon tomorrow."_

And that was when Gus really started to worry, without knowing exactly why. Not bothering to listen to the final message, he pocketed the wayward cell phone and left in hurry. He could make it to the station by noon if he hurried.

* * *

Alright! I'm off to do...other things. Let me know what you think!


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